


Hell By His Haunches And Boughs

by rangopornstar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Bit Gag, Bondage, Caning, Drugging, Enemas, Flogging, Hand Job, Humiliation, Kidnapping, Lube, M/M, More tags to be added, Punishment, Rape, Ring gag, butt plug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 13:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9739556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rangopornstar/pseuds/rangopornstar
Summary: Counselor Castiel begins his Tuesday normally; how it ends, however, is distinctly abnormal, as he is abducted by an anonymous voice and two hands that appear to have no motive but insidious, cruel intent.





	

            When it happens, at first, it is in a series of dreamlike, soon to be forgotten actions.

            It is, after all, just another Tuesday. Castiel wakes up at seven in the morning, eats his breakfast, drives down to the office. His clients today are the usual sorts, no new patients or mentionable blips in the schedule.

            That’s perhaps what makes this case so odd; more often than not, the victims can tell of a shift in the air. They had a new client, or a neighbor seemed more interested in their day than usual, or a car followed them about their day.

            But there was nothing. Nothing at all. Castiel spoke to his clients, had his lunch break, asked the receptionist Gad if he had finally plucked up the courage to ask Anna out to lunch (the answer was unfortunately ‘no, not yet’), saw his last few clients and then drove home. It was a horribly normal Tuesday.

            Until, of course, it wasn’t.

            It’s raining on the way home; the air smells of it, that wild, dirty smell. Traffic is a crowd of waving wind-shield wipers, the typical rush hour rushing by in a blur, unremarkable. In retrospect, Castiel cannot even remember what the date is; the seventh? The fourteenth? It doesn’t matter of course, not anymore. Not after he has escaped the highway, parks in the garage. It is the moments after that change him.

            It’s the wince of a needle, specifically, the pinch in the soft, hot flesh of his neck. A surprised and muffled cry slips out of his mouth, though the sound does not feel like it is coming from him. The view of his stairs and kitchen swims, curls in his eyes until it’s all upside down, as his knees tuck beneath his body and he lies, heavy, tired, on the welcome mat.

            There is a shuffle of movement, and Castiel, out of the corner of his eye, can see a hand drift to his pulse-point, arm covered in a dark though expensive looking sweater. He can feel his heart beating double time beneath the intruding fingers, but it is not from fear, he realizes. He isn’t afraid at all, somehow. He feels, indeed, nothing at all.

            There are no words exchanged between them as, Castiel, drowsily awake, supine, is lifted into the attacker’s arms, placed gently into the trunk of a car that is cleverly hidden in a deserted park. The cold rain sparks against his face, his neck, hands, any skin it can find, the air heavy as he feels, thick with the smell of petrichor. The trunk is dull against his spine, smells like wine and tires.

            His attacker’s face is back-lit by the pouring sky, and Cas, with unsteady vision, can see a five-o’clock shadow along a strong jaw, and vacant, green eyes.

            “Just try to relax,” The stranger says, voice rough though calm as he takes Cas’s pulse again.

            That’s the last thing Cas can remember; everything else turns to black and blue. He dreams of peacocks, exotic and green. Their tails, so long. In his sleep he hears cheetahs chirping, curtains flapping in the wind, and a radio jingle from his childhood.

            A typical dream, on a typical Tuesday. And yet-

            And yet.

 

XxX

 

            Castiel wakes slowly to the pinch in his bones; he can feel them grating beneath his skin, a dull, terrible ache keeping time with his pulse. He feels like the very blood coursing through his veins is making the pain worse, he is too full of blood, the pressure is too much, if only there were a way to-

            He tries to scratch at his skin with his nails but finds his hands twisted above his head with rope or leather; Castiel cannot tell, and when he tries to open his eyes to look up, he finds he wears a thick blindfold, one that goes over his nose. No light passes through it, and the straps are so tight around his skull that he cannot rub them undone no matter how furiously he presses his face into his bicep. His heart seizes, panic thick in his throat, the pain under his skin growing worse by the second, and as he tries to scream for help, for anything that may alleviate the grating and scraping beneath his skin he finds a bit between his teeth, rubber, foul tasting; it coats his tongue with its chemicalled, filmy taste, and he finds, embarrassingly, that he is drooling profusely from the corners of his mouth.

            He screams and shouts for help for only a few minutes before his throat feels dry ad raw, and it hurts to use his voice.

            For a very long time, very long indeed, but for how long exactly Castiel cannot say, he stands there, stretched. He is mercifully still clothed, though his shoes and socks have been removed so that his ankles may be more adequately buckled to the floor, but nonetheless, the room is colder than it is warm. When the hot patch of saliva he has drooled onto the front of his shirt cools, the chill of the room makes itself known. His toes too, have lost their heat, and he curls them often, hoping to feel them again, running them over the grate that he stands on.

            Eventually, the pain subsides and recedes from everywhere but his head, which pounds steadily. Cas decides it must be a side effect of whatever drug he was given, though he cannot say for certain without knowing its name, though it doesn’t matter; so long as the pain returns, Cas is fine not knowing the name of what caused it.

            It is what can only be hours later that the door, wherever it is, in wherever he is, opens. Soft footsteps shuffle inside, the door closing with a mechanical whir. There is a stony scrape on the floor near Castiel’s feet as the new occupant sets something down.

            New hands begin to undo the straps of the gag behind his head, and Cas starts at their sudden appearance, trying to pull from their grip, though it is useless. While the action is not aggressive, it is not soft, and Cas has nowhere to go. The gag slips from between his teeth, taking with it a trail of saliva. Cas feels a heat rise in his stomach, a blush, as even more saliva spills from his mouth as he tongue adjusts to the new real estate available to it.

            Next, a glass is pushed to his lips, and though he thinks about protesting, he soon gulps the water down greedily, poisoned or not. It cools his raw throat and he feels it trickle all the way through his body. Last, the strange hands offer him crackers, salted though still bland. He crunches a dozen before his stomach flips and he shakes his head when he is offered another.

            “Wh-Where,” Castiel has to swallow once before he can even finish the sentence. “Am I?”

            “Still in Seattle,” says the familiar, rough voice, “more northern than where you started.”

            The voice doesn’t betray any feeling. It falls from its owner with no inclinations, robotic, quiet, barely above a whisper.

            “Why is this...Why are you?” Castiel doesn’t think he needs to elaborate anymore.

            There comes no verbal response, but the strange hands tell all. From out of nowhere they begin to unbutton Castiel’s damp shirt, softly, one at a time until they reach the bottom.

            “Please,” Castiel says, his breath hitching at the prospect of the inevitable. “Don’t. Please just…”

             The hands ghost, slightly colder than the air around them, over his chest. Over his admittedly less-than defined abs. Softly, barely there, over his pecs, a single finger brushing across his nipple.

            There is a sinister snap of metal that makes Cas shudder, and then he feels the shirt being cut from his body in thin, delicate strips. He can hear the soft thuds the strips make as they hit the grate, flaking past his ankles and feet as they rest on the metal.

            Then the hands begin to undo his trousers. Castiel picks up his struggling again, bucking his hips away, and trying to wriggle his hands from their bindings, pulling his ankles in theirs, though his restraints provide no give. His breath begins to quiver around his pleas.

            The owner of the hands, unchallenged by Castiel’s attempts, pauses for a moment at the zipper, humming out an emotionless, “Relax.”

            The zipper falls open, trousers puddling at his ankles until they, too are cut off. His boxers are the only thing left, and the hands press the flat of the blade against Castiel’s flank, metal icy and savage.

            “This is the delicate part,” the voice warns. “Probably best not to struggle.”

            Castiel’s mouth dries at the words, but he begs one last time, though his hips do still as his boxers are cut away as well.

            When he is exposed to the cold air at last, the hands hold his flaccid cock, brush down the length, before the hand moves to cup his balls, lifting them gently. Castiel burns, blushing in embarrassment and shame, not at his body but by the fact that he is being seen, _judged_ by a stranger, exposed and observed against his will and with no way to make that stop.

            “Why are you doing this? I-I don’t understand,” he says, his voice catching in his throat as his eyes begin to water behind the blindfold.

            There is no verbal answer, as the hands retreat. Instead, the crinkle of packaging from the floor, and the footsteps cross behind him. A single, investigative finger runs from behind his balls, over his hole, all the way up to his spine, where the hand stops at the base of his back, pushing gently. His instinct, at the pressure, sit to bend over slightly, but that would just make it easier to do-

            “No, no I won’t, I don’t want that-“Castiel begins, yelling in his panic. Not that. God, of all things, not that.

            “If you don’t relax, I’ll gag you with something that’ll quiet you right down,” says the voice.

            “I don’t! Why are you doing this? I don’t understand, please, please just don’t, just let me go and I’ll forget that this ever happened-“the words are barely out of his mouth before the footsteps stomp angrily in front of him. There is a whistle of air, and a hot, cracking blow swipes across his belly, leaving an angry welt in its wake. Castiel gasps loudly, breathless, waiting for another blow, but the stranger takes advantage of his gaping mouth and shoves something inside.

            For a few moments Cas tries to push the object out with his tongue, whole body ricking and wriggling while the hands try to tighten the straps around his head. Eventually, Cas loses, as the buckle closes firmly, straps pressed deeply into his cheeks.

            It isn’t another bit gag, instead, Cas can tell, what is a three inch long rubber cock, rests on his tongue, bumping the back of his throat whenever he swallows around it, kicking his gag reflex. His body heaves each time, stomach tightening, as he desperately tries to shake the gag loose.

            The footsteps return behind him, the hand pushing his back again and Castiel is too distracted by the gag to not bend the two inches of give the restraints allow. There is another crinkle of packaging, a thick squelch, and then two intruding fingers spread cold, jelly-like lube across his hole. One finger breaches the tight ring of muscle, and Castiel grunts, then gags again. A second finger joins the first, probing and clinical, before retreating.

            The fat head of a plug, also drenched in lube, replaces them, pushing, softly at first, then harder and harder. Cas grunts as it begins to push inside him, thighs quivering, as the plug flares, fatter and fatter, before narrowing and settling between his cheeks. Despite the lube, the intrusion burns. Inside him, the contours are unyielding and hard, holding his ass open. Cas clenches unwittingly as the hands pat his right ass cheek softly, and as he does so he becomes hyperaware of the plug as the inner pull pats the head of the plug against his prostate, his cock flushing with heat as his thighs shake harder.

            The hands follow the footsteps to his front again, a single, wicked finger pressing into the raw welt that smarts beneath the touch, Castiel hissing behind the gag.

            “This was a warning,” says the voice, indifferent, frustratingly bare. The hand trails up to circle his nipple, pinching it softly, “I should hate to have to warn you again.”

            Castiel doesn’t nod, sweating coldly as he gags again, the rubber cock bumping the back of his throat again.

            A finger taps the front of the gag, pushing the cock back again, eliciting another heave.

            “I think I’ll leave that on tonight. Let you train that reflex down.”

            Dread floods Castiel as the voice collects whatever items it had left on the ground, the mechanical whir of the door hums, the footsteps retreat and Castiel is left in the quiet. And the dark. And the cold.

            It had been a normal Tuesday.

                                                                                                                                       XxX

            The next time the door opens, Castiel is exhausted. He hasn’t slept well, the ache of his arms twisted above his head, the unforgettable plug stretching his ass through the night, and the frequent gagging didn’t allow him much rest, though admittedly, he grew used to the gag as the night went on. He has stopped gagging altogether when the door opens again.

            Worse than that, he had to piss down the grate in the night, the acrid musk of his own piss permeating for a few minutes until it ultimately faded, the sound of the stream falling what Castiel guessed was five feet before disrupting whatever liquid waited at the bottom of the grate.  His cheeks burned with shame and his eyes watered freshly; the blindfold never let a tear escape, and for that he was grateful, but his nose still ran as he cried into the gag, his quiet sobs muffled further by the intrusive cock that has never left his tongue.

            He aches. Thinks of his bed back home, the rain on his skin.

            His stomach drops as he thinks of the appointments he’s to be missing, of the clients who need him, of Gad and his dilemma with Anna, of his _life_ , so recently lived, and so quickly put on hold.

            Castiel considers the likelihood that he could die here; in this chilly room, blinded and stuffed and exposed and taken. The thought itself makes his thighs shake again, but the sound of the door opening stills that. He gulps, stealing himself for what is to come.

            “Castiel Novak,” says the voice. “Thirty-four, unmarried. Blue eyes. Says on your LinkedIn that you’ve been a counsellor for seven years, but I’ve known those profiles to often be outdated.”

            The hands undo the buckle of the gag, which falls out of Castiel’s mouth, a trial of saliva following it from his lips.

            “Nine years, now,” Cas corrects, stretching his jaw. “Did you just kidnap me because you want some professional help but didn’t want to ask for it?”

            The voice tuts, a hand swiping over the welt that has cooled on his stomach overnight.

            “Do you want this back, then?” The voice asks, pressing the tip of the gag to Castiel’s lips.

            “N-no, I’m…” Cas rushes. “I’ll be…”

            “Good?”

            “Yes,” he says, the words hot on his tongue, poisonous. “I’ll be… good.”

            The hands never leave him as their owner circles around, down his back to investigate what has become of the plug. The hands push it, playfully, and it brushes against Cas’s prostate again, and he huffs softly, cock flushed with heat again. Until the plug is slowly pulled out, the lube from the previous day dissipated, so the removal burns and leaves him feeling empty. He tries to clench his hole shut to prevent another intrusion, but he had been held open for so long that his muscles do not snap shut.

            He listens, instead, as a faucet turns, the hiss of water as it spills through the grate and hits, splashing with whatever is at the bottom. The nozzle of the hose pushes at Castiel’s entrance, and the voice says:

            “You’ll feel some pressure.”

            Biting his lip, Castiel gasps as the water rushes through him, warm, slipping through his bowels. The hands pat and smooth over his ass as Castiel clenches and bucks around the hose as it fills him, his stomach swelling and distending. He grunts and huffs as the hose is turned off, the nozzle removed and thrown to the side with a metallic clank. The plug quickly returns, pushing into him again, and Castiel hates that it slips into place inside him and fills him comfortably now. The water solution trapped inside him now, Castiel sags in his bonds as his stomach begins to cramp, tight and swollen. His knees begin to shake, beneath the weight and pressure, as the voice returns, soft, though indifferent, emotionless.

            “Would you like the crop again? Or something else?”

            Stunned, distracted by the cramping, Castiel does not answer.

            A red lash of searing pain lances across his side, and his startled jump causes the enema to slosh about in his gut, pinching.

            “Crop, then,” the voice decides.

 

                                                                        XxX

 

            Perhaps it is thirty lashes? Maybe less. Definitely not more.

            The blows travel all over his body; his stomach, back, his ass, the insides and backs of his thighs receive particularly grotesque attention. Even his cock and balls earned a sharp snap, not nearly the strength offered to the rest of him. Certainly enough to make him scream, though.

            The voice seems to like that, his wailing. Every now and then Castiel could just barely hear the crinkle of a wet, thirsty smile splitting lips. Perhaps that’s why the gag never returned, no matter how loud he was. And he was loud, his voice echoing through the small room. Even in the moments of quiet, it rang there, his pain repeated over and over again.

            When the voice and hands are finished, and the crop falls to the floor, the enema is drained. The warm solution caused as much discomfort as the crop, the cramping capturing his attention whenever the hot lashes did not.

            The plug is pulled smoothly out of his stretched hole, and the solution, now tainted, having served its purpose, falls to the pit beneath the grate. Castiel assumes it is some chemical agent, as the smell of his piss and shit do not meet his nose.

            Without the plug, for a few moments he feels empty again, ass open to the cold air. The hands lazily push three fingers inside, wiggling the digits, curling them until the longest one catches Castiel’s prostate.

            However, unlike previous occasions with the plug, this time, the stimulation persists. First Castiel shudders as the jolts of sensation go straight to his cock, then, as the passing strokes from softer, more pressing than brushing, he begins to groan.

            “Have you ever done this before?” the voice asks, hands continuing.

            Castiel does not want to answer. He has. Twice. But this stranger, this captor doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t respond.

            “That’s a yes, then,” the voice finishes for him.

            Castiel’s cock is fully erect and dripping, humming softly in hitches with every new sensation that runs through him, blushing shamefully at his body’s betrayal band his own want for it, and it is as the first bead of pre-cum swells at the head of his cock, that the fingers withdraw. Castiel hates himself as he catches a moan in the back of his throat, disappointed and needy, his release so close.

            Replacing the fingers, a larger plug. Notably larger. Its sides flaring painfully further than its predecessor, as it is pushed, impersonally inside him, fresh lube squelching thickly at it goes. He feels even more stretched around it, body twitching around the intruder.

            There is more rustling in the room, Cas can only assume as his captor looks for a gag, so he seizes his chance while he has it.

            “Have you ever been in an abusive relationship?”

            There is a pause in the movement, an animalistic shift in the air; if thin ice has a sound, Castiel is hearing it.

            “Why do you ask?” the voice asks, again, betraying no emotion. To the throat that makes the words, they are just sound. There exists no meaning behind them.

            Or so their owner would like the listeners to think.

            Castiel clenches in his bonds as he says, “It’s a loose study, but it was found that those abused by their significant others grew more and more likely to enter another bad relationship, or turn to substance abuse as a surrogate for the pain they found themselves suddenly lacking. They’d been in pain so long they had forgotten what it felt like not to be in any,” he says, voice, he hopes, strong and academic, “However, if the abuser was the one to leave the abused, those left behind were significantly more likely to develop abusive tendencies. Stacked with your obvious sadism, I can’t help but wonder-“

            The crop cracks against his still dripping cock, leaving behind a searing trail and indescribable burn that Castiel screams for the pain of; it’s too much, the pain, the heat on his already sensitive and aching cock. Another blow. Another. He screams until he feels like he’s going to be sick. A fourth. A fifth.

            Breathless and heaving, sweat pushed from his pores in the strain of the ordeal, Castiel hangs his head to his chest. Stars spark across his closed eyelids. Colors swirl and tuck and billow, like curtains. He thinks about peacocks, and color. Sound. There is so much outside of the darkness, behind the blindfold.

            “I understand that it is your job to probe into people’s pasts, Castiel, but trust me when I say,” the voice begins, grave, as a cruel hand wraps, horribly tight, around his welted, wilted cock. “I am not someone that works well with.”

            Cas shouts, squirming under the hand as it sends sparking fires up his body. There is pleading, lots of that, Cas making all sorts of promises and wishes, sometimes unintelligible messes of sound, but he makes them.

            The hand releases his cock, hands retreating, only to return, pressing another gag to his lips. Castiel clamps his mouth shut.

            “Open,” says the voice. “Or I make you. I’m in no mood, Castiel-“

            “Can I please,” Castiel says quickly, desperate for something, just _something_ , “Can I please know your name? I just need… need something to think about, something to know. Do you understand? I’m not in control of anything, right now, and you know that, but I need to have something. Please.”

            The voice pauses. The gag rests on his bottom lip.

            “Dean. My name is Dean.”

            Castiel nods in thanks, and opens his mouth. It’s not a bit gag, nor the one from the night before. Instead, a wide ring gag. His mouth stretches to suit its size, tongue hanging out of the ring as, seconds in, he is already drooling embarrassingly. A few fingers from the terrible hand push onto his tongue lazily, swirling this way, and that.

            “I expect you to behave tomorrow,” Dean says.

            Castiel shudders as the door closes, and he is once again left to himself, dazed from the pain, thirsty, stuffed and sore. He aches and burns and pulses, as a sluggish pull of blood begins to fall from one of the wounds on his stomach, slipping down his thigh, to his calf, to his ankle, to his foot…

**Author's Note:**

> Depending on reception, this may continue into a larger arc. I have it all planned but zero motivation. Let me know if you're interested in seeing this continue!


End file.
